Nicotine & Ginseng
by gschelt
Summary: "By now I've been backed atop said table and tasted her lips; nicotine and ginseng is my best estimation as to the flavor." With Pansy, Hermione's a good girl gone bad. Lemon, Hermione/Pansy femslash. Oneshot.


Author's Note: This story has been sitting in my "In Progress" folder for months now, ever since my writer's block started back in July. I've been bringing up the file and attacking it and attacking it, a few lines at a time, until finally I broke the wall. I plowed through the block. This story means alot to me because it finally unstuck my head, and I'm back to writing. :)  
(I own nothing)

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"And then-"

Her knee hitches between my legs, thrusting under my skirt and making electric friction. It's amazing how she can find just the right spot even with my skirt and my panties in the way and without looking.

"-like _this_."

She looms over me like a spider, draping her arms over my shoulders and bringing her chest to mine. Her black hair brushes my cheeks and that must make her _really_ close because it's so sharp and short. And I can tell she's close also because I can feel the purr coming from her lips in the hot static that plays into mine. Breathing, rattling breaths and pink lips and intense half-lidded eyes, close as can be as her knee shifts back and forth on my, on my, on my oh my ohmygod-

"You've never done it before," she hisses, the question coming out as more of a statement because she's concentrating so hard and maybe because she's staring down the slope of my neck through nearly-closed eyes.

"Okay," she answers her own question, the question/statement she already knew the answer to before she had ever even leaned across the round library table five minutes ago and tucked a strand of my thick brown hair behind my ear. By now I've been backed atop said table and tasted her lips (nicotine and ginseng is my best estimation as to the flavor).

Now I'm the one who's hissing, sharp and shocked through my teeth like touching ice-cold metal to skin, as her knee presses hard and the edges of my peripheral vision go blurry. It's at that moment that her teeth graze my earlobe, and in the next moment her fingers are working on my blouse buttons as her mouth makes its way down my neck to my collarbone. She's searching for the clasp of my skirt when I reach up and start to undo her green and silver necktie.

Fervent sighs, parted lips, choppy black hair falling in her slitted eyes as I undo her first two buttons and forget the rest; my eyes fly shut as she threads her hand down my half-removed skirt.

"Oh, oh fuck," I manage to choke out haltingly, throwing an arm around her shoulder and biting my lip as she finds me with her first two fingers. It's hot, hot heat and wetness sliding as she slowly starts to move her fingers with the same concentration as she did with her knee. She moves in closer, parted mouth drawn tight across her teeth, and uses her other hand to push my skirt down to my ankles as I shakily finish undoing her shirt buttons. My movements are jerky, my vision jolting from my eyes as she works her fingers. It's too hard to focus energy into pulling her shirt from her shoulders with this kind of electrocution sizzling up and down my skin, so I give up again.

"Just… leave it…" she mutters, her taut lips barely stirring. She's so stiff, barely moving at all. All that's moving is the beads of sweat rolling down her neck, the strands of black hair refusing to stay put out of her face, and of course the concentrated thrust of her right arm from her shoulder to her fingertips. All right, so maybe it's all of it movement. It's all rocking and rolling… but none of it is rhythm. As tier upon tier of heat stacks up in my abdomen and everything seems to be melting, I know that there's no rhythm. That would require a steady beat, tempo, or pace; and some coherence. All I know is a kind of… _sweeping_. A rough, jumbled, discordant sweep of everything into one tangle of movement and sound.

Of course, trying to describe it at all is reaching. Hundreds of thousands have tried, in books and songs and anything creative like that, tried to put into words the sensation of you and another. Of sex. That's what this is, isn't it?

Sex. This is sex.

I'm being fucked by Pansy Parkinson.

I'm a good girl. I'm supposed to come to that realization, snap out of this mad spell I'm under, perhaps slap her across the face for good measure, go running off scandalized. _Sex. Fucking_. It's what I ought to do, what a girl like me should do. And wouldn't I do it if it were a boy who had so abruptly jumped me like this? Of course. Not only was it proper, it was instinct. They must always be polite, they must always say please, they must always court you and smile often and of course shy handholding is basically first base, et cetera et cetera et cetera… But no. She's not a nice boy; she's a bad girl. She smokes in the lavatory and wears trousers and hangs around with a crowd of boys (oh but so do you, Granger) and knows how to undo a shirtfront in five seconds flat.

_Sex. Fucking._

And oh, is she good at _that_.

In the back of my mind I know this isn't having sex. The term suggests a sort of cooperation; no, wrong choice of word. Teamwork. Perhaps that's better. But all I know is that I'm telling myself, _you're letting yourself be fucked by Pansy Parkinson_. Allowing some sort of vandalization to occur, that's what my conscience is implying. I know it, but right now I don't feel like that good girl who's being spoiled. You know what, conscience? This _is_ sex.

**Fucking.**

And though we're two bad girls, it's altogether really _good_.

Soon, however, my already barely-lucid argument with my conscience is reduced to fizzling neurons as the girl filling my vision begins to melt, as desperate respiration replaces English as the only language I feel I will ever know, as tiny blue flames seep into the pit of my gut… Everything else is falling away but for that circle of heat, swelling and breathing like it's alive, and I'm nothing but my own abdomen writhing from that delicious warmth. _What the bloody hell, Granger, none of this makes an ounce of sense. _

No, it doesn't, but it doesn't matter either because now I know what it is, what this ineffable sensation is, that I'm oh-so-close to comi-

Cliché as it sounds, I erupt like a volcano.

With one last shudder, I finally go still. Not quite still, as my chest is rising and falling like I've run a mile, but the rocking and rolling has quit. Her head is bowed, stubborn black hair in front of those eyes that are locked, twinkling, in mine, and she gives me a slow, crooked grin. I hardly notice that my skirt is sliding back up my legs, pushed by those delicate fingers of hers along my skin.

"Wow," I croak, at a loss for anything else to say. The brightest witch of my age, hm? Struck dumb by a climax. It's so perfectly foolish… so foolishly perfect… it causes a blush to mingle with my flushed skin. I smile.

"Wow?" she repeats quietly, amused, as she carefully buttons my blouse. Such a different speed from how they had become undone… I smile further.

"Yeah," I whisper, "Wow." And before she can get halfway up my blouse, I put my hand on her chin and pull her lips in mine. Nicotine and ginseng… it's a flavor I could get used to.


End file.
